


Aim True

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Archery, M/M, This is super self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's a barebow archer with Olympic dreams and travels the country with John and Sam shooting. But there's this compound guy he keeps seeing who he can't get out of his head. (Archery AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aim True

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU THANK YOU to my favorite beta Lily/drownedinblissfulconfusion/tundraeternal!

The first time they’re in the same competition, they don’t even see each other.

Dean’s six, watching Sammy and fletching arrows while their father shoots Mary’s old bow and makes friendly wagers with Rufus and Bobby and the rest of the barebow guys.

Cas is nine, and he’s competing in the Junior Olympic tournament on the other side of the field. He’s shooting in the Cub class against kids three and four years older, but he’s cool under the pressure. His brother Michael watches him release and corrects his form when his shot hits the blue ring for only 6 points of the possible 10.

\----

The next time their paths cross, Dean is eleven. He’s shooting Bowmen with a bow he carved himself that summer, and Sam’s watching him adoringly from just behind the line.

Cas catches sight of him as he draws and releases, and wonders who the scruffy kid with the beautiful bow could be.

\----

The next time’s a year later. Dean’s just hit his growth spurt and can see over the heads of his competition for the first time. He notices the messy dark hair a few sections down, and watches the other boy’s near-perfect form. But then Sam tugs his sleeve and the moment’s lost.

\----

Because he’s the son of Mary and John Winchester, and because he’s just that good, Dean gets a scholarship to High Performance Camp the summer he’s sixteen. He goes, because John tells him to, but watching Sammy cry as the bus pulls away nearly breaks his heart.

He knows most of the other kids by sight – they’ve competed for years. But only a few of them are kids he actually knows; John’s never been one for socializing, and so his kids rarely get the opportunity to just spend time with people their own ages. Dean’s not comfortable, and he hangs back from the group. He’s better with folks like Bobby, who tells it like it is and lets a person know he knows when they’re full of shit. All this posturing and shouting and fooling around these kids do? Dean’s not sure how to fit in.

He’s feeling cornered, the others trying to feel him out and see how he measures up, and he’s starting to panic just a bit when there’s a hand on his shoulder, suddenly pressing down gently, and he calms almost against his will.

He looks up and back to a vaguely familiar face, someone he’s seen around the rounds of competitions and training programs his family frequents. He’s a compound shooter, one of those guys with the fancy bows and matching shirts and laser sights.

Dean hates him on principle.

He steps away, yanking his arm from the gentle grip, and stalks towards the dorms.

\-----

They see each other from a distance, a few times throughout the week– Dean’s got his eye out for the dark-haired kid and doesn’t let himself get vulnerable again. He doesn’t need help, especially not from some kid in a team polo who coaches compound, for chrissakes.

Instead he hangs with a girl called Jo who’s in his training group, and her friends Ash and Pamela, and they sit beneath the Colorado sun during breaks staring at the mountains and sharing that particular intimacy of people whose shared lives are different from everyone else’s.

It turns out Jo’s mom and Dean’s dad knew each other way back when, but they had some sort of falling out. Pam knows Bobby through some adopt-an-archer thing that Team USA did for a while, and they’ve stayed in touch. Ash knows about everyone in the sport somehow, popping up with stats and facts out of nowhere.

So the four of them sit around most afternoons after training’s done, sharing stories of competition and missing school and parents that push too hard. They avoid the compound kids, and most of the other recurve ones too, and Dean’s actually pretty happy, for once.

The end of the week comes quickly, and before they know it Dean’s standing on the corner waiting for the bus, hugging Jo and Pam–who smacks his ass as he pulls away–and slapping Ash on the back. The bus pulls up and he gets on, heading back towards home and Sam.

\-----

Four years later, and Dean’s at Nationals in North Andover, Massachusetts. The gym is hot, and he’s near the end of the row where the sun shines through the high windows. There are three hundred archers in the room and out of the corner of his eye he can see John to one side of him, face stern as he considers the targets across the room and adjusts the leather of his arm guard.

To the other side, in front of him, he spots Sam in the middle of the row. He seems happier than when they arrived; he hadn’t wanted to come at all, had wanted to stay home and study for some chemistry test or something, but John had insisted so here they all were. But he’s chatting with the girl in front of him, a lefty so Dean can see she’s got dimples and a smile to match Sam’s own and long curly hair pinned away from her face. Her recurve is fiberglass and well-cared for, but he can see that it’s worn in all the right places and has stickers from at least four competitions. The back of Sam’s neck is that particular shade of red it gets when he’s confronted with an attractive girl, and Dean snickers. The competition hasn’t even started, and it’s gonna be a long three hours for Sam if he’s already distracted.

That’s when he sees that dick from camp, the one with the thousand dollar bow. They haven’t interacted since, but there aren’t that many people in the archery world and so their paths crossed at least a few times a year. Each time Dean saw him, he felt something rise in him that he was pretty sure was annoyance, frustration, or something like that. He’d turn and head the other way each time, not wanting to get trapped in an interaction.

He’s distracted from eyeing the guy by a hand clapped on his back and Jo’s grinning face.

“Dean!” she steps up beside him. “Looks like we’re in the same division this time around.” She smirks. “Good thing we’re not competing for the same prize. I’d hate to make you lose.”

He shakes his head, smiling back at her. Jo’s intensity scares him a little bit, sometimes, but she’s a damn good archer. Her family’s been in the business for longer than Dean’s; her mother runs the best supply shop in the midwest, the Roadhouse. Jo’s out here for college at Smith, but Dean’s pretty sure she’s going to drop out. She loves archery and hunting and wants to train to make the Olympic team despite her mother’s hopes for her to stick school out. Dean’s not getting involved. He’s met Ellen twice now, at events where she’s vending, and he doesn’t want to get on the bad side of either Harvelle.

The warning buzzer rings before they have a chance for any more chatting, and Jo settles into position three spots down from Dean, a very tall guy between them so he can’t see her. They’re on the same butt for scoring, though, so they’ll get to hang out a little.

As he waits for the buzzer that signals the first end, he keeps his eye on Sam, which means keeping an eye on the other dude too. The guy’s standing in line with the other compound shooters in his class, but he seems to be on the fringe and not involved in their conversation. Instead he’s staring down the lane at the target intently, and Dean can see his eyes glinting in the summer sunlight that trails along the wooden floor. He turns suddenly as if he feels Dean's eyes on him, and Dean's pinned under that gaze like a butterfly on a board.

The stare lasts for ten seconds, twenty, thirty, and then the buzzer for the first end rings and Dean jerks away, eyes wide and heart beating fast. He shakes his head, trying to clear the flush from his cheeks as he fumbles the arrow onto the rest. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and ignoring the flashing red of the timer. His heartbeat slows and his grip steadies and he shoots.

It's a pretty good competition for Dean; he scores a 341 and places first in the location but third in the overall class. John gives him a pat on the shoulder and a gruff _Good_ , and Dean can't get the grin off his face.

Jo places second in the location, behind Meg Masters, and she storms out in a huff before the announcement of her second place overall placement in the collegiate women's class.

Sam does less well, with a 310 and placing sixth in his JOAD class, but he scores a phone number from the pretty blonde next to him and Dean gives him a grin and a thumbs' up behind John's back. All in all, Dean's pretty sure the Winchesters came out on top in this one.

As they're packing up their things, curling strings into waxed paper, rolling targets, and waiting for the awards, Dean watches the guy from the corner of his eye. He's not speaking to his teammates: the big black man is laughing while the skinny blond man leans against the wall, smirking. They all look like they're in their mid-twenties, and all are equipped with all the latest gear.

"That's the Garrison team." John's walked up behind Dean, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Stay away from them, Dean. They're not the kind of people I want you involved with."

Dean nods, still watching the dark-haired man, who's now helping the youngest member, a kid who can't be more than 15, unscrew the sight from his bow.

"Come on." John pulls him towards the ceremony stage being set up in the back of the gym.

Dean gets his medal and a handshake from the head of the New England archery folks and steps off the stage with a smile.

Sam gives him a one-armed hug and a huge, dimpled grin, and Dean ruffles his hair as they start to head out towards the door. Dean glances back to see the compound awards beginning with the youngest group and he lingers, watching as the kid he'd seen earlier stands when "Inias Milton" is called. The man from before is watching with a tiny smile.

John's been caught up in conversation with Rufus, and their harsh whispers aren't quite audible. But they're not leaving anytime soon, looks like, so Dean settles in to watch for a while.

The next category is adult compound men, and the third place winner is the smirking blond from earlier in the Garrison polo. Dean doesn't catch his last name, but his first is definitely Balthazar and Dean shakes his head at the weirdness of the wealthy.

Second place goes to someone he doesn't recognize, and then first is called – Castiel Milton. It's the man from before, the man with the messy hair and deep blue eyes, and he walks carefully to the stage, accepting the medal and handshake without a change in expression. As he walks off the stage, the blond throws an arm around his shoulder and grins at him, and Dean hears John calling his name. He turns and walks out, trying not to think about why he's keeping the name Castiel carefully tucked away in a corner of his memory.

\-----

It's not like Dean thinks about him or anything. No, it's definitely not that. He just-- keeps an eye on the scores for competitions around the country. That's nothing new; John's always taught them that keeping track of the competition is important.

And if his eyes happen to wander across the page to the compound scores, and if he feels a little jolt every time he sees that name--Castiel-- on the page, so what? He's curious about the guy, that's all.

But after a few months have gone by since nationals, he's running out of excuses.

Every once in a while, John takes him and Sam to compete as part of a team. Usually they roam the country, Sam (and Dean until he dropped out at sixteen) registering in a new school every year, wherever there's a coaching job for John and a range for the boys to train at. Sometimes, that range comes with a team.

This time they're in Nebraska with Caleb. They've trained with him before, the summer Dean was fourteen, but this time they're not alone. There're five other archers in their teens and twenties and they're all heading out from their home range to a competition against a team in Des Moines, and it's not until they arrive at the massive, state-of-the-art facility that Dean remembers where he's heard of the Heaven's Arsenal range before.

There are pictures of their champions hung along one wall, smiling faces holding bows and trophies and medals, and he runs an absent finger along the edge of one frame as his teammates horse around. Sam fits right in with Caleb’s team, and it's Dean who's feeling like a bit of an outsider. The frame shifts as he passes and slides from the nail and he grabs it before it can fall, sticking it back on the wall, and that's when he sees who's featured in the photo.

It’s Cas ( _and when exactly did Dean start calling him Cas?_ ) standing with a group of women: one in her forties, identified as his coach, Naomi Engel; one a few years older than Cas, labeled Anna Milton ( _a sister?_ ); and two younger ones, Hester and Rachel Malach ( _Malach? Like the bow company?_ thinks Dean).

He’s so wrapped up in the photo that he doesn’t notice the presence behind him until a shadow falls across the frame and there’s a gravelly voice in his ear.

“Hello, Dean.”

He jerks forward, dropping the photo again, but a tanned hand snakes around him and catches it. Dean turns quickly to find Castiel Milton looking at him curiously from inches away.

Dean’s caught again, that pinned feeling rising in his chest as their eyes meet, green on blue, for a long few seconds before a crash of falling equipment jolts him from his thoughts.

“How do you know my name?” He blurts.

Castiel cocks his head. “We’ve shot at competitions together for over ten years, Dean. You’ve been called by name for numerous awards. It would be strange if I didn’t know your name.”

Dean’s not sure what to say to that. He’s opening his mouth to say–he’s not even sure what–when he hears Bobby calling his name. As he slides past Castiel, someone says, “we should have coffee or something sometime,” and to his horror he realizes it was him.

Castiel steps back, eyes wide, glancing around and dragging a hand over the back of his neck. Dean makes his escape.

\-----

Needless to say, he doesn’t shoot very well in the match. He’s distracted by their brief conversation playing over and over in his head and every time he tries to focus in on the target through his sight all he sees is Cas’s wide blue eyes.

The final scores are calculated, and Dean’s lucky it’s just a practice competition instead of a qualifier because he scores lower than he has since he was fifteen. He’s also lucky John’s not here to see it.

As he waxes his string before the team dinner, he looks up to find Castiel once again in his space unexpectedly and he nearly falls off his stool.

“Jesus _Christ_ , dude! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Castiel cocks his head slightly to one side and stares at him.

Dean’s starting to wonder if this guy’s all right.

“If you’re still interested in coffee, I have an hour before my team dinner. I believe you do as well.”

Dean can’t say no to that.

\-----

Dean tells Sam he'll be back before dinner and Sam grins at him and tells him to have fun. It's not the first time Dean has taken some private time with a competitor and since Cas is off making excuses to his own team, Dean doesn't think it's necessary to mention that this time it's a guy-- and worse, a _compound archer_.

They both find themselves outside the door at almost the same time, and there's an awkward moment when Dean's not sure what he's doing and nearly makes some excuse and runs, but there's something in Cas's eyes he's not seen before, something bright and maybe even hopeful, so he sticks around, gesturing with a thumb across the plaza and asking, "Starbucks okay?"

Castiel nods and they start across the lot, picking their way between cars and trucks and abandoned shopping carts. They’re silent, and Dean’s got a feeling of something like doom in the pit of his stomach.

He’s glad to see there’s nobody in either team’s polo in the coffee shop and relaxes a little. He snickers when Castiel orders a latte with a shot of peppermint but silences under the other man’s calm gaze. He’s about to order his usual manly black coffee when he changes his mind-- he’s already out for coffee with a man drinking a peppermint latte, so why not embrace the weirdness of this afternoon and get what he really wants?

He orders a java chip frappuccino, venti, with extra chips, extra whip and a shot of caramel and grins as the barista hands him a monstrosity with a chuckle. Dean doesn’t even care that it’s five dollars for coffee and sips it with a grin.

Castiel is sitting at a table by the window, watching the parking lot, when Dean joins him by flopping in the chair beside him.

“So Cas,” starts Dean. “You’re pretty good with that compound bow, right?”

Cas turns his blue gaze on Dean and nods, eyes curious. “I’ve been competing with in for nearly fifteen years, so yes, I suppose.”

Jesus. Dean’s never going to get used to that low, gravelly voice coming out of this unassuming dude. “You, uh, you ever try a recurve?”

Cas hasn’t, and they quickly establish that Dean’s never tried a compound either, and suddenly the conversation flows easily as they talk shop and teammates and competition life. Turns out Castiel has a whole family in the life; he and his sister Anna and brother Inias were raised by their oldest brother, Michael, who’s fifteen years older than Cas and twelve older than Anna. Hester and Rachel are cousins, and they’re all grandchildren of James Malach, founder of Malach Archery, the largest brand of compound bows and equipment in the business. His parents died in an accident when he was four and Michael had fought for custody and won it even though he was just twenty and had cut off his Olympic dreams that year to take on responsibility for three kids under ten. Michael has a twin, Lucifer, who’s been in jail since Cas was four and who no one has spoken to since.

In return, Dean tells him about growing up with his dad and Sam, staying in towns for a year at a time until John lost interest or got itchy or whatever it was that made him move them. He talks about Bobby and Caleb and Pastor Jim and about Ellen and Jo and how he wishes they’d reconcile with his father. And mostly, he talks about Sam. He tells Cas about how Sam’s an awesome archer but his heart isn’t in it, how he’d rather quit the sport and go to college and live a normal life, but that John says anyone with this much talent needs to be shooting.

He doesn’t talk about Mary, beyond saying she passed away when he was a kid. Cas’s eyes are sympathetic at that, and his hand twitches as if he wants to reach out to Dean, but he stays put. Dean’s not sure if that’s a relief or a disappointment.

Then suddenly Dean’s phone is ringing and he pulls it out and realizes they’ve been talking for an hour and he’s late for the bus. He curses and jumps up to leave as Cas answers a similar call from his own team.

As he hangs up and jogs out the door, Cas on his heels, he pauses and turns.

Castiel stops as well, and for a moment they’re silent, then both speak at once.

“Dean--”

“Cas, I--”

Dean takes a breath, running a hand over his face and through his hair. “This was-- this was fun, Cas. Let’s do it again some time, okay?”

Cas nods and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and scribbles something on it. He hands the card to Dean. It’s a phone number. “I enjoyed this as well, Dean.”

Dean grins. “And next time I’m gonna get you to shoot my recurve, all right?”

Cas gives him a small smile. “All right.”

They go their separate ways.

\-----

A month later and Dean’s in Omaha for a match. He’d programmed Cas’s number into his phone but every time he typed out a text he panicked and deleted it, hearing his father’s voice in his head telling him _stick to your own, Dean. Don’t mingle with the people who are in it for the sponsorships and the fame. You’re not good enough to waste time._

So he doesn’t call.

But they’ve been to a few matches in the midwest and every time Dean watches for a white polo and dark hair and every time Cas isn’t there.

But this time he spots Naomi as soon as he enters the gym. He straightens and grins as he sets his bowcase down. Naomi means Garrison, and Garrison means Cas.

Sure enough, there’s Castiel and Michael in heated discussion in one corner of the range. Cas is frowning, brow furrowed, and Michael is whispering harshly at him as he pulls water bottles and powerbars from their team bag.

Dean’s not sure what their tentative friendship is, but he’s sure he doesn’t want to have to interact with Michael. So he pulls out his phone and types, 'Hear theres a good place for coffee around here. You interested?'

Cas jumps a little as the phone beeps and he pulls it out, stepping away from Michael, who watches him suspiciously. He types slowly and deliberately and a moment later Dean’s phone chimes and he opens the text.

'Yes.'

He looks up to see Cas standing alone, Michael off with Inias, and gives him a grin. Cas smiles back quickly and turns back to setting up his lane.

\-----

The way folks are split up this time means he’s facing away from Cas, which also means Cas is facing his back. He feels eyes boring into the back of his head during every pause, and their eyes meet during the scoring of each end at least once. Finally the competition is over (Dean scores a respectable 339) and Dean’s packing up when his phone vibrates.

“I drove myself today. I assume you did also. Would you like to meet in ten minutes outside?”

Dean looks up to see Cas watching him, and nods in understanding. He hurries to pack, glad for once not to be with anyone he knows. When he makes it outside exactly seven minutes later, he watches through the glass as Cas is waylaid by first Naomi, then Michael.

He grins as he watches Cas get increasingly frustrated as Inias, then Hester stop him as well. Finally, fifteen minutes after their initial exchange, he makes it outside.

Dean's actually laughing out loud now, and laughs harder at Cas's stormy face. "Dude, you're popular," he says, still chucking.

Cas's severe expression eases in the face of Dean's laughter, and he smiles outright when Dean slings an arm over his shoulder. "Come on," Dean pulls him forward. "Tell me how you did today."

\-----

When Dean thinks about it, he’s not sure how they became friends. Cas comes from a different world than he does. He doesn’t even understand any of Dean’s jokes. He seems to have somehow totally missed the boat on pop culture, and he’s quiet and reserved where Dean is brash and loud.

But they both know what it’s like to lose a parent, and they both have younger brothers they love. They each have been pushed into competition from a young age, and they both feel disconnected from the larger world and from their own smaller communities.

There’s no deadline tonight; they’re both adults and each has their own transportation, so when the coffee shop closes at nine it’s a surprise to both of them.

Cas stands first, collecting his cup and Dean’s and tossing them in the trash.

Dean follows him out the door as the barista locks it behind them, and they stand looking out over the flat Nebraska landscape for a moment.

Off to one side, Dean spots a familiar structure. It’s a swingset, swings swaying in the slight breeze. “You got anywhere to be tonight, Cas?”

The other man shakes his head. “Do you?”

“Nah.” Dean starts towards the playground. Cas follows.

They sit in the darkness, drifting back and forth across the ground, and Cas says, “I used to enjoy it, you know.”

Dean turns to him, squinting to try and make out his expression in the dark. “Enjoy what?”

Cas gestures to the range. “Shooting. Archery. Competition. All of it.”

“And you don’t any more?”

Cas is silent.

Dean looks up at the sky. Hundreds of stars are appearing, more every minute as the sun finishes setting. “I get that.” He sighs. “Sometimes I wish I had time to just shoot for fun, you know? Not scoring, not competing.” He starts swinging gently, just back and forth a few feet. “We used to. Back when I was a kid. Dad’d take us hunting and we’d practice on the trees. But when we started to get good--” he tips back a little, picking up a bit more speed in his swings as he falls silent.

“We always competed.” Cas’s voice is low. “Since before my parents died. My father believed we should take over the family business, all of us together. And when they died and Lucifer was arrested--” He turns away from Dean, staring out into the distance.

“Michael wanted to keep your parents’ wishes going.”

Cas nods his agreement.

Dean puts his feet down, grinding to a halt. “You can still have fun with it, though.” He stands. “Tell you what. I’m gonna teach you to shoot recurve. No judgement, no scoring, just some fun.”

Cas looks alarmed, but stands as well. “Now?”

“Yeah. Now.”

“But nowhere’s open, Dean. It’s the middle of the night.”

Dean claps Cas on the shoulder and leads him to the Impala.

\-----

Ten minutes later they’re standing in a field, lit by the Impala’s headlights streaming from behind them. Cas’s car is parked a few feet away and he’s looking around curiously. Dean’s found a bale of hay somewhere and stuck a receipt to the center of it with a stick. He’s pulling his bow from the trunk, fitting the limbs carefully to the riser and stringing it easily. Cas watches from the hood, leaning against the Impala and tapping his fingers in a nervous rhythm against the metal.

“There.” Dean hands Cas the bow, and he takes it with careful fingers. “You know how this works, right?”

Cas is examining the limbs carefully. “In theory, yes.”

“Okay then. Let’s get set up over here.” He pulls Cas by the wrist away from the car. “This look like about 18 meters to you?”

Cas looks down at the target and nods.

“All right. Same stance as with a compound bow, all right?” Cas turns ninety degrees and wraps his hand around the grip, raising the bow. Dean’s outfitted him with a handmade leather fingertab and a matching armguard, and the quiver on his hip holds aluminum arrows instead of the carbon he’s used to, but much of it feels the same.

Dean steps closer, leaning it to whisper behind Cas. “Put the arrow on the string, Cas.” He’s just inches away now, and he watches with fascination as his words stir the hair on the back of Cas’s neck.

Cas pulls an arrow from the quiver with shaking hands and puts it to the string, nocking it firmly.

“Now draw back to your ear.” Cas starts to pull and huffs a little at the effort of the extra weight past the first inch. Dean breathes a laugh in his ear. “Ain’t easy, huh?” His hands come to rest lightly on Cas’s hips, keeping them aligned with his torso and feet. “Just keep pulling back evenly, okay?”

The string reaches Cas’s chin, and he holds it there.

“Perfect. Now let go just like you would if you had a release, but remember it’s just your fingers on the string. Roll it off and let your hand fall back.”

Cas lets go, and the arrow flies off into the distance, overshooting the target bale by at least a foot. His bowhand drops and Dean can see the tension in the lines of his back and he pulls the bow from Cas’s hand. “That was a good first try, Cas. How’d it feel?”

Cas turns to face him, frown melting in the face of Dean’s smile. “I enjoyed it,” he admits quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Wanna try another?”

Cas takes the bow back, turning and nocking an arrow.

Dean grins.

\-----

It’s a few hours later, and they’ve finally exhausted the novelty of Cas with a recurve. They’re sitting on the hood of the Impala, side by side, with an electric lantern Dean found in the trunk and a bag of chips Cas had pulled from his bag.

It had taken Cas only an hour to start shooting consistently with Dean’s bow: the holes in the bale had marched relentlessly inward the longer he shot. But it hadn’t been about that. There’s a sparkle in Cas’s eyes that Dean hasn’t seen before.

And now they’re relaxing, munching doritos and staring at the stars.

"I haven't enjoyed shooting that much in a long time," Cas admits quietly, staring upwards. "It's always been about competition and reputation, not... Fun."

Dean nods. He gets that. Glancing over at Cas, he sees that the other man is trying to find a way to wipe the orange Doritos powder from his hands without getting it on his clothes or the impala, and Dean feels a smile spread across his lips.

They’re close enough together that their elbows are brushing, and in the semi-darkness Dean finds it easy to lean over and cup a hand over Cas’s cheek and fit their lips together.

Cas lets out a shaky sigh and lets Dean guide the kiss, leaning back as Dean drops the chips, wipes his hands on his jeans and rolls on his side to cover half of Cas’s body with his own.

Cas’s hands reach up tentatively from where they’d been spread on the hood and wrap around Dean’s waist, burrowing beneath his jacket and shirt to find the bare skin beneath.

Dean lets out a pleased noise against his mouth and is just reaching for Cas’s hip–

Cas’s phone rings loudly and they spring apart. He fumbles for it, pulling it from his pocket with a quiet curse, and flips it open.

“Hello?” His voice is hoarse and frustrated and Dean snickers quietly, trying to shift his suddenly too-tight jeans into a better position. “Yes. Yes. I–yes, I’ll be there. Fine.” Cas hangs up with a loud sigh. “Dean–” his eyes soften as they land on the other man.

“You gotta go?” Dean sits up, stretching.

Cas nods, eying the cell phone distastefully. “We have a 'family commitment' in the morning, Michael tells me.” he turns the force of his gaze on Dean and reaches out a tentative hand to his shoulder. “I would like to call you next time I have free time, if that’s all right.”

All Dean can do is nod. There's no way he's not doing this again.

Cas turns to head towards his car then stops, comes back, and kisses Dean hard on the mouth, burying his hands in Dean’s hair. He pulls away, panting, and says, “Sometime soon,” and strides back to his car, leaving Dean staring after him with his heart pounding once again.

\-----

So it continues like that for a while. They don't often cross paths, especially once outdoor season gets started, but they do okay, texting a few times a day at least and actually meeting up for a quick cup of coffee and a few minutes making out in the impala the one time they’re in the same state, until John calls to find out where the hell Dean's gone. Dean's not really sure what it is they're doing, but he's enjoying it, so he just goes with the flow.

He sees Sam watching him curiously, but his brother knows better than to ask. It's for the best. Dean's got no idea what he'd say if Sam did ask who it was he was texting. 'My secret boyfriend' probably wouldn't go over well in the Winchester household.

But finally the Olympic qualifiers roll around, and Dean's champing at the bit to get to Colorado for more reasons than one this year. For one thing, he's got a pretty solid shot at making it this year, he thinks. He's done well in competition (at least, when he's not distracted by blue eyes and the sliver of tanned skin that sometimes peeks out at Cas's waist) and he's seen his name on a few lists of possible team members for Team USA this year.

And he has to admit, he checked the predictions for compound as well and grinned when he saw Cas's name featured just as prominently as his own. If they both make the cut, he's pretty sure Cas can find a way to get them as roommates in the Village. Dude's got connections.

He texts Cas as they pull up, letting him know he's arrives, and looks up to see John's eyes on him in the mirror.

"You been on that phone a lot lately, Dean. Something I should know about? New girl in your life?"

Dean shakes his head, tucking the phone away. "Nothing, Dad. Don't worry about it."

John's still watching him, though, and Dean shifts impatiently as the car pulls into the spot, then all but leaps out as his phone vibrates again in his pocket. Grabbing his bow and the spare equipment bag, he calls, "see you at the line in half an hour. Gonna go warm up, see if Jo or anyone's around."

Now both are giving him weird looks, and Dean high tails it out of there and behind the gym to the spot he's meeting Cas.

Cas comes around the other side of the gym just as Dean does, and raises a hand in greeting. He's not carrying any stuff, but that just means this match is important enough that Naomi hired kids to lug her team's shit around all day. But he's wearing that damned polo and his hair is wind blown and longer than the last time Dean saw him, and man, if Dean's chest doesn't fucking warm at the sight of him.

"Cas!" he calls, setting his stuff in a nook in the wall and striding forward. "Good to see you, man." He throws his arms around Cas's shoulders, pulling him in, and Cas reciprocates for a moment before pulling away to press his mouth firmly to Dean's.

Dean would never in a million years admit it, but he feels his knees actually go weak as Cas spins him with those wiry arms of his and presses him into the wall, plastering his body across Dean's. his hands are everywhere, roaming across Dean's sides and back and dipping into his waistband and fuck, Dean can barely think beyond the tongue in his mouth and the hand brushing the top of his crack.

So he doesn't hear the footsteps come up behind them until--

"What the hell are you doing?!"

Dean freezes, caught between pulling Cas closer and pushing him off.

But John does it for him, yanking Cas by his shirt collar off of Dean and stepping between them. "What the fuck is this, Dean?"

Cas, brave little dude that he is, actually steps forward at this and holds out a hand. "Castiel Milton, sir," he says steadily, trying to subtly insert himself back between John and Dean.

John ignores him, staring Dean down with narrowed eyes and clenched fists, and for some reason that's the detail that finally breaks Dean from his inertia. "This is Cas, Dad. My boyfriend." He sends a mental apology to Cas, because they've never actually labeled what they have, but he figures with John it's better to go all out. He's not gonna get distinctions like 'this is Cas, who I made out with a few times and who I like a whole lot and Oh yeah we've been texting each other constantly for six months, and we've known each other pretty much out whole damn lives'. To be fair to John, though, Dean can't imagine getting that if he wasn't the one in the middle of the damn thing.

John's staring at them both, mouth open, and Dean can see his eyes flick to the insignia on Cas's polo.

Shit, he thinks.

He doesn't know how John will react to the whole dude thing, but he's pretty damn sure how he feels about the Garrison team, and compound archers in general. He can see John getting ready for another explosion when he's interrupted by someone yelling Cas's name.

"Castiel!" Michael Milton comes around the corner, face stormy, and stops at the scene before him.

There's a moment of silence as John and Michael take each other and the scene in, and Dean holds his breath, glancing from one to the other. It's not often that he has absolutely no idea what's going to happen, but somehow that's been more frequent since he and Cas became whatever it is they are.

The two men seem to finish sizing each other up and come to some sort of silent agreement, rounding on the two before them. John grabs Dean's arm while Michael takes ahold of Cas's. They're just starting to drag them in opposite directions when Cas breaks free on his paralysis and digs his heels in. It's a testament to his wiry strength that Michael halts, unable to pull him, and Dean does the same.

"Michael," Cas says quietly, and Dean strains to hear him, "I will go compete in this tournament, and afterwards I will be going out to dinner with Dean Winchester. I am an adult and I can make my own decisions." He pulls his arm from Michael's grasp as Dean takes a deep breath and turns to John, who's glowering at him and trying to force him forward.

"You heard Cas, Dad. Now let go." He pulls away as well. "I'm twenty fucking years old. It's my damn life." Suddenly he's got an armful of Cas, who's planting a kiss on him hard enough that Dean's sure he’ll feel it all afternoon. Cas gives him a grin and turns, stalking off towards the gym door, and Dean hefts his bow and follows.

When he reaches his lane, he catches Sam's worried gaze and gives him a reassuring gaze. But then the warning buzzer sounds and he does his best to relax, finding it surprisingly easy. It of the corner of his eye he can see Cas's dark hair and gleaming bow, and instead of distracting him this time it helps him focus even harder. He hears the buzzer for the first end and places an arrow on the string.

This is gonna be a good match.

\-----

Walking up to score the last three-arrow end of the afternoon, Dean's grinning. Jo elbows him hard, her face breaking out into a massive smile as well as they see their targets and the three bulls eyes in each.

He doesn't want to jinx it by assuming, but with scores of 351 for him and 347 for her, he's pretty sure they're a pair of Olympic athletes right here.

His phone buzzes as he's pulling his last arrow, and he pulls it out.

'See you in Brazil, Dean.' It says, and he looks up to see blue eyes intent on him. He grins at Cas and texts back, 'Roommates?'

Yeah, he thinks, this year is gonna be awesome.


End file.
